


come on baby (play me something)

by silverfoxflower



Series: like here comes the sun [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29467179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: Jaskier POV of the events of "gimme sympathy".
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: like here comes the sun [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164401
Comments: 27
Kudos: 317





	come on baby (play me something)

Jaskier has always struggled to ignore his … fissure of attraction towards Geralt, ever since he’d answered the man’s half-ass Craigslist ad out of desperation (ex kicked him out in the middle of the night with little more than his guitar and the clothes on his back) and they met for the first time at the coffee shop down the street. 

Geralt was wearing what he always wore - black, the thin shirt straining at the seams as he folded his arms across his chest. His hair was pulled up but there were a few strands that slid free, brushing against his lightly stubbled jaw as he sternly outlined his rules for co-habitation - 

(“I’m a Witcher,” Geralt says, narrowing his eyes at Jaskier across the table, upon which sits a half-empty cup of black coffee across from a frothy mocha mess with sprinkles melting at the bottom. “That going to be a problem?”

“Oh!” Jaskier replies brightly, “That’s why the hair ... and the eyes ...” he stops gesturing as he sees Geralt’s glower. “I mean no, no problem. That’s like a gig, right?” 

“A what?” Geralt seems to be trying to figure out if Jaskier is insulting him.

“A gig thing, like Uber ...? Forget it.” Jaskier waves his hand. “Babe- ... can I call you babe? No … okay I won’t then. _Dude_ , I’m _massively_ open-minded. Ask anyone, I’m cool with anything and anyone as long as you’re not ... hurting people. I mean, even if you do, as long as you’re not hurting _me_ -” 

Geralt closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

“So do I ... get the apartment?” Jaskier asks slowly. As it’s either this or homelessness, Jaskier really, _really_ hopes that the answer is yes.

“You’re the only one who applied,” Geralt admits begrudgingly.) 

\- and Jaskier had thought, _I’m in trouble._

\--

But as much of a fan as Jaskier is of biting off more than he can chew, he’s not about to fuck with a straight(?) roommate who is the only thing standing between him and homelessness on the mean streets of Novigrad. So Jaskier keeps himself to himself. Except for, well, the odd appreciative glance and/or comment. He isn’t made of _stone_ , you know. 

He puts Geralt in a very strict, very _platonic_ box. He keeps Geralt at arm’s length (as much as Jaskier can keep _anyone_ at arm’s length, really, he admits that he’s never really understood the concept of personal space). 

And everything … everything is _fine_. For a while, anyway. 

\--

Geralt’s a fucking heartthrob, and he’s so oblivious about it that it’s pissing Jaskier off. 

Like, they can’t even go to the grocery store without some Whole Foods wine mom salivating at him over the avocados. Jaskier has straight up stopped taking Geralt to parties because Geralt was messing with _his_ game. Nothing to crush the spirits like a cute girl swanning over to ask you about your hot, brooding friend in the corner. 

(“Is he … you know, _single_?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Haha, but he looks so _intense_.”)

 _He’s a fucking dork, actually_ , Jaskier thinks darkly. It might be easier all around if Geralt just got a steady lay, but he has a habit of glowering everyone around him to submission.

Not Jaskier, though. He’s got a bullet-proof shield of false confidence and self-delusion. He’d taken one look at Geralt and thought, _I’m going to adopt him. I’m going to make this man’s life better._

And it’s worked, to an extent. He got Geralt to finally trim out those split ends, so now his long hair actually looks fashionably purposeful rather than overgrown. He’s brought some life and color and _decor_ to the apartment, which was depressingly sparse before. 

(”Are you a minimalist or something?”

“I … what?” 

“You own like two pairs of socks! I had no idea a man could live like this. The entirety of your closet is less than what I’d pack for a weekend trip!”)

He’s even gotten Geralt to smile a few times, which softens the harsh lines of his face and brings out the warm amber of his eyes. He’s done … perhaps too good a job, because now Geralt’s talking to a leggy blonde with a large, shaggy mutt, slinging his shorts up his hips as he crouches down to pet it. 

She seems too basic for him, but it’s … it’s a start.

Jaskier turns away firmly to finish … whatever it was he exited the house to do in the first place. Oh yes. Retrieving the mail. 

He’s shuffling through the bills in his hand when he hears Geralt walking close. 

“Hey,” Jaskier says, eying Geralt’s jogging outfit. Which is just his regular outfit, with basketball shorts. “You get her number?” 

“Who?” Geralt asks, reaching over Jaskier’s shoulder to grab an envelope. “Oh. She was just asking for directions.” 

“You’re fucking hopeless,” Jaskier groans, slapping the rest of the mail across Geralt’s sweaty chest. 

–

Jaskier offers to set Geralt up on Tinder (only half because he wants to see which gender preferences he selects) and receives a scathing, incredulous look in reply. 

“I’m a _Witcher_ ,” Geralt says, like that means anything. Yeah, maybe like fifty years ago the whole eyes-hair-teeth package would’ve been off-putting, but it’s like … cool, now. Fetishized, even. 

Just to show how hot Witchers are at the moment, Jaskier picks one up the next time he’s out, a slender, dark-skinned twunk wearing the medallion of a Cat. He’s great, actually, his stamina is incredible and despite his size he can manhandle Jaskier like it’s nothing. 

Jaskier’s proud of his public service when he strolls across the kitchen the next morning, whistling, showing off his love bites by not wearing a shirt. 

Geralt does not seem pleased. 

“That could be you, you know,” Jaskier says, indicating to his room, where last night’s Witcher was still taking his rest. Jaskier had … more than put him through his paces. “If you stopped scaring off anybody who so much as sniffed in your direction.” 

Geralt … _growls_. Jaskier, who is bent over the fridge examining the milk’s expiration date, straightens abruptly in confusion. 

“Okay Mister Grumpy Pants, you keep seething with your sexual frustration, then.” Jaskier says, shoving the fridge door closed. They’ll go out for break- …. brunch this morning, him and his Witcher. He’d been more than charming last night, and they were certainly compatible in bed. Maybe it could be more than a one-time thing.

“He better be gone when I get back,” Geralt snaps, grabbing the keys of his motorcycle as he stomps out. 

–

Geralt’s on their small strip of a balcony, talking on his cell. 

Jaskier surreptitiously turns the volume down on the TV in order to eavesdrop, but all he picks up is the name _Yennefer_ , and some exasperated epithets. It’s not the first time he’s heard that name.

“Your ex?” Jaskier asks, as Geralt slides open the glass door and steps inside, irritably carding his hand through his hair. 

“Sure,” Geralt says, tossing his phone down on the coffee table, where it spins across the surface as he sits heavily beside Jaskier. “What’s happening?” he asks, and Jaskier thinks that this woman must have really done a number on Geralt, to make him pretend to care about _Love Island_.

“Ok, so Vuko there’s trying to make a move on Igwun and Uve’s _just_ about to find out …” 

–

So the problem has been diagnosed. Low self-esteem, and he’s still hung up on his ex. 

Nothing unfixable. If Jaskier was given the option to date Geralt, he would even find it attractive, having such a _project_ (Jaskier admits that he’s a broken person ok). But also, he does have to admit to himself that Geralt has shown no interest in indulging in his matchmaking thus far and it would be cruel to drag the man into the dating scene kicking and screaming.

So when the hottie in a crop top props her hip against their table and asks for an introduction, indicating to Geralt with her inclined head, Jaskier pulls a face. 

“Ooooh, sorry, my friend is … working some stuff out right now,” he lowers his voice, “ _messy divorce_.” 

When the woman still looks interested, he adds hastily,

“He cheated on her with a man, you know. It was a whole _thing_. Best leave him be.” 

Geralt returns from the bar with their drinks, confused when the woman gives him a disappointed pout before sliding off. “Did I interrupt something?” 

“Nope!” Jaskier says. “Hey, this place blows actually, you wanna hang out back at the apartment?” 

“You sure you didn’t want …” Geralt cocks his head in the crop top girl’s direction. 

“Nah,” Jaskier says, in between chugging his drink. “Just the two of us tonight. It’s been a while!” 

“Hm,” Geralt says, but he seems pleased. Jaskier chooses to believe that it’s at the prospect of his company. 

Jaskier watches the line of Geralt’s throat as he slams down his drink and thinks, _what a waste, such a gorgeous man and no one to ruin him_. 

But that’s fine. For now, Geralt is all his.

\--

In the back of his mind, Jaskier always knew that he would fall into bed with Geralt someday. As long as the guy had even the _slightest_ predilection in that direction ...

 _Room-temperature butter_ , Pris called him once, _spreads easy for anyone_. 

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Geralt’s not just _anyone_. Geralt is ... gorgeous. He’s patient. He’s kind and funny and intelligent ... but always in this furtive, secret way, tucked close to his chest, like he’d perish if anyone ever called him out on having, gods forbid, _positive qualities_. 

Maybe that’s what it is. Whenever Jaskier teases out a sly smile, when he manages to get Geralt in a tear about some monster fact, when Geralt returns to the apartment at 4am, dripping with cockatrice guts but holding the milk Jaskier had asked him to pick up for his next morning’s cereal ...

Well. Jaskier’s a sucker for that shit. Blame the paperback bodice-rippers he used to steal from his mother and read under the covers when he was way too young to contextualize them. His formative years swooning after gruff, unavailable men. Explains a lot, actually.

But for a while, he’s able to be good. 

Geralt is _verboten_ because ... well, he’s Jaskier’s roommate (and good luck finding rooms for this price now that the dockside’s all _artist lofts_ and _luxury condos_ ), he’s straight (not true, as it turns out), and ... he’s a good guy. He’s a good friend. 

For all of Jaskier’s extroverted cavorting, he doesn’t actually have that many _good friends_. Friends who will watch his shitty reality shows with only a minimum of complaint, who are gentle as they latch the million tiny buttons on the back of Jaskier’s over-complicated shirt, then not two hours later shove their fist through a guy’s solar plexus for getting in Jaskier’s face in a crowded bar. 

(They are sooooo banned from there, but Geralt ... Geralt was _magnificent_.)

Not many good friends who will strip Jaskier of his rain-wet clothes, kiss the tears from his eyes and fuck him so sweetly, so thoroughly, that by the time he comes he’s filled utterly with their warmth, and has forgotten why it was that he was crying in the first place. 

Not many ... ah fuck.

\--

Geralt is arched over Jaskier’s body, the light behind his head giving him a halo. His hands are firm on Jaskier’s hips and he’s fucking Jaskier with this concentrated expression, his teeth gritted and his eyes shining. His hair keeps slipping over his face and he keeps clawing it back, and Jaskier wants to laugh at that, but he’s too busy shaking. He’s too full and he’s too hot and he just wants Geralt’s mouth on his own. 

_Ground me_ , he thinks, as Geralt lowers himself, pinning Jaskier to the futon as they kiss, _weigh me down, keep me whole ..._

_I think I’m flying apart._

_\--_

“This won’t happen again,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lays alone with his panting breath and stuttering heartbeat and thinks, _good_. 

He doesn’t think his heart can handle any more.

_\--_

The next morning: Jaskier knows that it’s all on him to keep the tentative equilibrium between them, that had been rocked (and _how_ ) by his own moment of weakness.

Geralt walks into the living room with his shoulders stiff and his eyes darting from side to side like someone’s going to jump out and ambush him with _emotions_. 

He’s like a skittish animal, and who knows what he’s liable to do when cornered? Demand that Jaskier move out? Gnaw off his own leg? Have a strained, halting conversation about how last night was a mistake and he doesn’t think of Jaskier _like that_ and they should keep their distance from now on? 

Dear gods, anything but _that_. 

“Do you want blueberry pancakes? I’m making blueberry pancakes.” Jaskier says brightly, because that’s what his mother made when he was 11 and broke the news that she and his father were divorcing, and now Jaskier craves blueberry pancakes in times of distress, even though he despises them simultaneously. 

Geralt just looks confused, so Jaskier does what he does best and keeps talking. Maintaining the facade. Like he doesn’t know what Geralt’s mouth tastes like. Like he isn’t going to pop a semi the next time Geralt shakes his hair out of his ponytail. 

_Fuck._ Jaskier fumbles the mixing bowl and it bangs out of his hand, splatters batter across the countertop and half on the floor. He looks up at the click of the lock and Geralt’s already gone. No blueberry pancakes for either of them, in the end. 

Jaskier sinks to the kitchen floor and just sits there for a moment, resting the back of his head against the wall. He did it. He pulled it off.

_What now?_

\--

Once is a mistake. A forgivable, forgettable (ha ... who is he fooling) _mistake_.

Twice, three times ... more? Well there’s nothing to ascribe that to but Jaskier’s own selfishness. 

The most infuriating part is that he’s trying to do the _right thing_ for once. He’s trying to find love, someone who will love him the same. Someone so gloriously perfect that he’ll never have to think of Geralt again in that way ever again (guiltily, furtively, pulling his cock in the middle of the night with his briefs tangled around his legs, the fabric of his t-shirt clamped tight between his teeth because … because when he’s fucking cliche he might as well go all the way). 

But that’s exactly the problem. No one really measures up to Geralt.

“Where are you?” the cute girl with the heavy eyeliner and ombre purple hair asks. 

“What’d you mean?” Jaskier asks, smiling. “I’m right here in front of you.” 

“Your body, maybe,” she says, fishing a scrap of pink ginger out of her soy sauce. “Your mind is elsewhere entirely.” 

She’s sharper than his usual picks, maybe because she does tarot and pegged Jaskier as a Gemini within five minutes of meeting him. Spooky girls normally turn him on, but she’s right. In his head, he’s thinking about Geralt pulling on his boots for tonight’s hunt, the black laces wrapped around his bloodless knuckles as he makes a tight, efficient knot. The click of his swords as they slide onto his back. His hair swept up, exposing the vulnerable line of his nape. 

“... 48 hours, at most 72,” he’s saying, his usual spiel when he’s marching off to something more dangerous than the usual, which for Geralt means something _really_ dangerous. 

“I know,” Jaskier interrupts, “Eskel, Vesemir, Lambert - in that order. Morgue. Hospital. Police.” He stands when Geralt turns to the door. “Are you … sure you can’t take anybody with you?” _Me?_ He almost asks, but the few hunts that Geralt had allowed Jaskier to attend had been easy stuff, and Jaskier had _still_ almost managed to get himself killed. 

_You’re a fucking bad luck charm_ , Lambert called him once, and that spins in Jaskier’s mind as he looks at Geralt in the doorway. 

They’re standing so close, and for a moment, it almost seems like Geralt is going to _kiss_ him. Kiss him goodbye. Like they’re something bigger than roommates who sometimes fuck and don’t talk about it. Jaskier feels the warmth of Geralt’s gaze on his mouth, and knows that he’s looking too, his heart beating in his throat. 

The moment passes. 

“No,” Geralt says as he turns away, “it’s just me.” 

_That’s fine_ , Jaskier thinks as the door closes in his face. _No bad luck to take with him._

“I’m just a little worried,” Jaskier’s body says, laughing. “My roommate is … in some heavy shit right now. Sorry, I should be more present, I know.”

“Yeah?” Spooky girl just blinks, unimpressed. She leaves him with a dry smile and the bill, and Jaskier can’t bring himself to begrudge her. 

He wishes he could be so honest. 

Instead, he dates and he chases and he _tries_. 

And when he’s broken, when he’s stinking drunk and slobbering tears all over his college hoodie and beating himself up about being _used goods_ and _too fucked up to keep_ , Geralt gathers him up and gives him a sweet, precious taste of what he can never, never have.

\--

 _Why do I even_ like _the guy?_ Jaskier wonders, heatedly, one night when he’s alone in the apartment. 

When Geralt gets the apartment to himself, Jaskier’s usually off getting laid. When Jaskier gets the apartment to himself, Geralt’s usually running himself ragged two counties over, chugging potions and getting snapped at by beasties in the dark.

At least _one_ of them gets a good night’s sleep when they’re alone, Jaskier thinks irritably, hugging the pillow to his chest. 

As Geralt has repeated often, he’s a _Witcher_ , a job that could get him ripped off this planet at any fucking time, and Jaskier wouldn’t even know except that the little GPS Lambert installed surreptitiously on Geralt’s phone will like, blip out or something. 

He’ll stay out all night and not text Jaskier a single thing, _a single thing_ to confirm that he’s still alive. Not that Jaskier has asked. Not that he thinks he has the right. 

Geralt’s got _no_ sense of style, _no_ manners and even less tact. He’d wear jeans and boots to a fucking wedding if he could get away with it. _His_ fucking wedding, even. 

Jaskier spends a few miserably self-indulgent minutes imagining Geralt marrying some faceless woman before waving off that thought as too masochistic even for him. 

Geralt’s only ever attended one of Jaskier’s gigs, and he left in the middle, without telling anyone. Jaskier remembers looking up right after announcing, _so this next song’s dedicated to my very dear, very patient friend, Geralt-_ and seeing no one there. 

That’s great, _that_ makes him steamed. 

Geralt has the communication skills of a fucking pet rock. Scratch that, at least the rock can’t get up and leave in the middle of a sentence. That’s probably why Yennefer gave up on him. Now that Jaskier’s met her, he can see that _one_ of them got their shit together after the break-up and it certainly wasn’t Geralt. 

He can’t even stack a fucking dishwasher properly, putting wine glasses on the _second level-_

Jaskier vents his frustration (sexual and other) with a long, cathartic scream into his pillow, only to be interrupted by a sudden swiping sound on his phone. He gropes around in dark until his hand connects with his scratched-up phone case, lifting the luminous square to his bleary eyes. 

It’s a selfie from Lambert. He’s grinning, making a rude gesture and Geralt’s under his arm looking disgruntled, his eyes doing that spooky cat thing with the camera flash. He’s holding something drippy and disgusting-looking. 

It isn’t even sent to Jaskier - it’s sent to the groupchat and probably more for Aiden’s benefit than anything - but something still eases in Jaskier’s chest. He flops onto his back, the phone laying screen-down on sternum as he closes his eyes. 

He never really gets the answer to his question, but he does somehow manage to get 4-odd hours of sleep before his 9AM Composition class so that’s something. 

\--

They’re fucking again, and it’s the … fifth time? Sixth time? Jaskier’s given up on the stern lectures he usually gives himself beforehand, shit like _this is the last time, okay, don’t get used to it._

Who is he fooling, anyway? Certainly not himself. 

Geralt’s just playing with him, three fingers deep, rocking into Jaskier’s ass as he holds Jaskier to his chest, making soft sounds as he presses kisses into Jaskier’s hair. They’re in Geralt’s bed, where Jaskier had flopped on him drunkenly the night before and Geralt had just let him, held him and listened to him babble, and waited until morning to take him apart. 

Jaskier’s hands are on Geralt’s cock, but they keep slipping. Sweat, pre-come, the saliva from when Jaskier was a little over-enthusiastic about trying to deep-throat him a moment ago. 

They’re under the blankets and it’s so good. No urgency at all. They kiss, slick and filthy and tender and sweet, and Jaskier fucks himself down on Geralt’s fingers and thinks that he could die like this, He could dissolve under the sun and the warmth and become nothing at all, and it would be okay. 

The beeping of the garbage truck outside makes Jaskier flinch. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing weakly at Geralt’s arm as he withdraws his slick fingers from between Jaskier’s legs. “I forgot to put out the bins.” 

Geralt laughs, a soft puff of sound. “I know,” he says, shoving the blanket off of them as he slides down Jaskier’s body. “I put them out last night.”

“You … what?” Jaskier asks, the thoughts scattering from his head as Geralt grips the base of Jaskier’s hard cock, sliding a piece of hair behind his ear. 

“You didn’t do it before you left for your date,” Geralt says, as casually as if he isn’t currently stroking Jaskier’s cock just millimeters from his face. “I didn’t think you’d come back.” He pins Jaskier with a stare as he opens his mouth for Jaskier’s length. “You get dishes this week.” 

“Guh,” Jaskier says, and remembers why he likes Geralt _very_ much. 

\--

Jaskier’s lying naked on his stomach on the bed, wondering at the concept of post-coital cigarettes, whether they’re truly as satisfying as the movies make them look, when Geralt walks out from his shower, towel hung low on his hips as wet hair drips rivulets down his shoulders. 

Hurriedly, Jaskier tries to look sad, remembering that he’s supposed to be mourning his breakup with … the tinder guy. Ph.D in philosophy and wouldn’t shut up about Kant. 

Geralt looks at him, and then away, like it makes him uncomfortable. “Better?” he asks. 

Jaskier almost laughs at the sheer absurdity question, but just manages to stop himself. “Yeah,” he says, his voice husky. “Thanks.” He fishes under his bed for a clean towel and launches it towards Geralt’s face. “Stop dripping on my carpet.” 

Geralt snatches it out of midair with a grunt and starts to squeeze the water from his hair. Jaskier would be lying if he said he wasn’t holding his breath, waiting for the towel around Geralt’s waist to fall the moment he removes his hand from it. 

No dice. 

Geralt catches his eye and smirks. “Only the first one’s for free,” he says holding up an index finger. 

It’s the closest they’d come to even talking about talking about this. 

“Shit,” Jaskier says, climbing onto his hands and knees on the bed. “Does that make it … pro bono? _Pro boner_ ?” Geralt abruptly leaves Jaskier’s room as Jaskier shouts after him, “is it pro boner, Geralt? _Is it_?” 

\--

Jaskier has started sleeping in Geralt’s bed during his hunts.

It’s not weird, he tells himself. They’ve been doing their ... hooking up and not talking about it thing for a few months now, and like a metronome set to a heartbeat tempo, his senses have become intensely attuned to Geralt’s body. His warmth. His smell. Jaskier thinks he can blame Geralt for the way his body _wants_. 

He’s like an addict with the way he needs it, and he’s growing increasingly afraid that no one else will do. Maybe it’s because they’re living together, but none of Jaskier’s other partners have ever made him so ... _aware_. Even the simplest things ... the way Geralt pulls up the bottom of his shirt to mop the sweat off his face when he works out, exposing his hard abdomen. The way he cards his fingers through his hair when he’s frustrated, or thinking, or he’s just shaking out his ponytail before he ties it up again. Fuck ... even the way he _sits_ , always at the edge of seat like he’s ready to bolt off, his knees spread wide and the cuffs of his jeans pulled up, exposing his pale, vulnerable ankles. 

So much for not fucking his (not-so) straight roommate and ruining a good thing. Jaskier wants to jump his bones every time they’re in the vicinity. 

He’s not entirely sure how that translates into the furtive bed-stealing, but. It’s natural, right, to worry about your roommate and dearest friend when he goes out to risk his life for barely minimum wage on a weekly basis? 

Maybe it’s not natural to deal with it by sneaking into his room and sliding between his cold sheets, hugging his pillow and thinking ... stupid thoughts. Of his sly, soft smile and the warm timbre of his laughter. His hands spanning Jaskier’s waist, pulling apart his thighs. His sharp amber eyes flicking to Jaskier’s as he licks-

 _Nooooo_ no no no no. Jaskier’s not going to jack off in Geralt’s bed while he’s gone, that’s ... that’s way crossing the line. He turns over and closes his eyes and firmly thinks of other things. 

His upcoming gig. The dissertation he’s been kicking down the road for the past few years. Priscilla has a line on a reasonably-priced Gibson, if he wants to travel down to Tretogor to pick it up ...

Though he doesn’t mean to, Jaskier falls asleep. 

And wakes up when he hears the creak of the apartment door opening, something soft and heavy falling to the floor. 

Jaskier bolts up, his heart beating in his throat. Geralt’s home early and there’s no time to escape back to his own room, make it look like anything but what it is. Even now, Geralt is opening the door, the sliver of light from the hallway arcing large and yellow, blinding Jaskier as he sits helplessly in the darkness.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He pauses in the doorway and Jaskier braces himself for disgust, but Geralt just shrugs off his leather jacket in a tired manner, turning away as he pulls loose the buckles of his sword belt. “Who is it this time?” 

_Nobody important,_ Jaskier thinks, _nobody at all._ But he can’t really say that. Geralt’s not going to ... comfort him if there’s nothing he needs comforting _for._

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jaskier says instead, pressing his face against Geralt’s pillow, hiding his shame. 

“That’s new,” Geralt snorts. There’s a muted clanking as he hangs up his swords.

“How went the hunt?” Jaskier asks, glancing up. He remembers Geralt’s ad: _OK with blood & don’t scare easy_. He doesn’t look hurt today. Doesn’t look like he’s bursting out of his skin with those potions he chugs from his silver hip flask. Though Jaskier had really only seen him like that just the once. Usually Geralt stays at Eskel or Lambert’s when that happens. 

“False lead,” Geralt grunts. “Waste of fucking time.” He flicks a glance to Jaskier. “Don’t get your hopes up, though. ‘m tired.” 

“Aw,” Jaskier says with false disappointment, curling his back like a cat. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s eyes flick to the sliver of exposed stomach as his shirt rides up. 

“You can,” Geralt says, turning away as he haphazardly stashes the rest of his equipment. “You can stay if you want.” 

_Will you stay with me?_ Jaskier doesn’t ask. He smiles sleepily instead, yawning and turning to the wall. 

A few minutes later, he feels the bed dip as Geralt slides in behind him. They’re not quite touching, but Jaskier can feel how cold he is, coming in from the early winter night. 

If he’s going to press his luck, it might as well be now. He rolls over, feigning sleep as he draws Geralt into his arms. 

He’s stiff, at first, but Jaskier keeps his breaths slow, willing his heartbeat to do the same. Geralt can pick up on these things, though Jaskier’s almost willing to be called out at this point. Whatever this is, between them, it can’t go on for much longer.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Geralt relaxes. He presses his face against Jaskier’s throat and Jaskier can feel the heat of his breaths, his cold fingers warming as they find the curve of Jaskier’s waist. Their legs tangle and Jaskier doesn’t even mind that Geralt’s feet are like blocks of ice. 

_I’m in trouble_ , Jaskier thinks, his heart cracking in his chest, _I’m in so much fucking trouble._

\--

He’s composing something that’ll never see the light of day, one of those songs so embarrassingly autobiographical that he only sings them in private and preferably under the influence of alcohol, when the front door opens and he hears Geralt’s voice. Jaskier’s about to call out to complain about the _mess_ that Geralt had left the kitchen that morning, when he hears a new sound. 

A _woman’s_ voice. 

“... brighten the place up. Like a bit of aloe, or an African violet. Even _you_ can’t kill that.” 

Geralt laughs, and Jaskier is alarmed. Geralt doesn’t _laugh_. Not with people he just met. And Jaskier’s known Geralt for a total sum of five-odd years so he _knows_ everyone Geralt knows and it’s enough people to count on the fingers of one hand. 

“... nicer, though. Since the last time.” The woman says. There’s the creak of someone sitting on the futon. 

Jaskier strains his ears to hear the sound of Geralt sitting beside her, but there’s instead the pop of the fridge door swinging open. 

“Want anything?” Geralt’s voice is muffled.

“I don’t trust your taste in beer,” the woman says, and Jaskier can’t stand it anymore. He clears his throat, and then he stands. By the time he walks out to the living room, both Geralt and his guest are staring at him with mild eyes. 

She’s pretty. Chestnut hair curled around her shoulders, looking effortlessly graceful in her flowered sundress. 

“You must be the roommate,” she smiles, linking her fingers under her knee. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Jaskier says weakly. “Sorry, I can’t chat, I have to … I have to run.” 

“Jaskier-” Geralt says as he passes, but Jaskier can’t really hear anything right now over the rush of blood in his ears. 

\--

 _she’s eskel’s new … something,_ Geralt texts him, with an alacrity that belies his usual manner with all forms of communication, digital or otherwise. It’s an explanation that Jaskier didn’t ask for, doesn’t deserve, and it’s … not even the point. 

The point is that Jaskier is _jealous._ Which means that he’s _attached_. Much, much more than he thought. He’s not going to be able to handle it when Geralt _does_ find somebody else, when he decides to end whatever it is between them and actually be happy. 

_I’m in love with Geralt_ , Jaskier realizes, and the fear that grips his chest is nothing short of paralyzing. He stops at a random bus stop five blocks away, and sits, and buries his face in his hands. _Who will comfort me from this?_ Jaskier thinks, and laughter threatens to break through the thickness in his throat. _Who will fix my broken heart this time?_

A bus pulls up, and opens its doors. Jaskier doesn’t move, and after a beat, the bus gathers itself and moves on.

\--

Pris offers to let him stay as long as he needs, but she lives in a studio in the meat-packing district with approximately three-quarters of a window. 

No, Jaskier has to find a new apartment, then tell Geralt to his face that he’s moving out. 

These last nights are the worst. They don’t even fuck, because Jaskier feels sick with it now, feels like he’s manipulating Geralt somehow, like he has been all along. 

But that’s ridiculous. Geralt just wanted to get off. It probably wasn’t any deeper than that, for him. 

_Meanwhile I’m here falling for a good fuck and scraps of affection_ , Jaskier thinks bitterly, but he can’t help but continue to sneak looks at Geralt whenever they’re in the same room. Just … doing nothing in particular. Cleaning, or reading, or patching up his jacket with a needle and silver thread. 

_This is the last time_ , Jaskier keeps repeating to himself, because it sounds melodramatic and tragic, and worthy of a future song, instead of just the ramblings of a pathetic, love-sick fool. 

_This is the last time you’ll moon over his stupid fingers and the way he bites the thread to snap it. This is the last time you’ll watch him gather his hair in one hand, then grope around for his hair tie even though it’s right there on his wrist. This is the last time you’ll want to kiss him because he’s so near, looks so warm, and because you know the shape of his mouth under yours and want to know it again and again-_

“You’re quiet,” Geralt says, which is the most that he’s noticed of Jaskier’s mood, or at least the most he’s commented on it. 

“I’d think you’d be happy about that,” Jaskier says, and tries to smile. 

“No,” Geralt says, frowning. “Not when you’re … unhappy.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Jaskier says, standing brusquely, “I’m feeling like blueberry pancakes, you in?” 

Eventually, a new apartment is half-heartedly decided upon, Pris’s newest boytoy with a truck has offered to help him move, and Jaskier’s sitting in the half-dark, waiting for Geralt to come home so he can cheerfully ambush him with the news. He’s had a few stiff drinks to calm his nerves, but not enough to slur his speech, so when he hears the door jingling open, he stands, and says, clear and steady,

“I think I should move out.” 

Geralt’s eyes widen, his mouth falls slightly open, then his lips press together and pull into a pained grimace. He looks … _stricken._

 _That’s unfair_ , Jaskier thinks angrily, _that’s so fucking unfair._ He’s tearing up before he knows it, that strong facade crumbling to pieces as his speech becomes halting and frays like a rope sawed through by a dull blade. 

“I just want love,” he says, and that’s the truest thing he’s said all month. He wants someone to look at him … like Geralt is looking at Jaskier now. Like he’s afraid to lose him. Jaskier shakes his head sharply. “I’m never going to find it,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “If I … if I keep _sabotaging_ myself for an _excuse_ -” 

He draws in a quick breath. This is more than he intended to confess, and he looks up to find that he cannot read Geralt’s expression _at all._

“Can I touch you?” Geralt asks roughly, and Jaskier remembers that he rebuffed his hand before. 

“And what’ll you do if I say yes?” Jaskier asks bitterly, “Will you take me to your bed, and fuck my brains out, and act like nothing happened afterwards? I’ll probably let you. Because I’m weak, and I’m stupid-”

“No, I am.” Geralt says, and something in the tone of his voice makes Jaskier look at him, _really_ look at him. He’s so sincere it hurts. “I’ve always just wanted ... you.”

Jaskier draws in a shaking breath, something long dormant unfurling in his chest. Geralt closes his eyes, as if pained, and it’s up to Jaskier to take the next step now, and it feels like walking off of a cliff.

He slides his arms around Geralt’s waist and buries his wet face in Geralt’s shoulder. He feels Geralt trembling, and thinks, _how could I have missed this?_

“We’re both fucking morons,” Jaskier says, and groans to feel Geralt’s mouth sliding over his.

\--

The sex isn’t even good this time, but somehow ... it feels perfect. 

They're awkward, overeager and hesitant at once. They’re touching each other’s bodies like they haven’t done this a dozen times at least, fumbling with the clasps of their clothing like they’ve forgotten the use of their fingers. They have to stop kissing to pull Geralt’s shirt over his head, then again so that Jaskier can do the same and it feels like torture, each time. 

“Gods yes,” Jaskier sobs as Geralt fucks him into the futon. Where it all started. A closed circle. “Don’t stop - _my love_ , don’t stop.” 

It’s not a proper confession, but. Geralt groans like he’s been gutted, and Jaskier thinks that for the first time he understands what Geralt was saying all along, without a single word. 

\--

"Play me something?" Geralt asks hesitantly, after, and Jaskier is surprised.

"Ah, sure," he says, and realizes that he's never treated Geralt to one of his post-coital serenades. It had seemed too intimate at the time, something that would make Geralt bolt like a spooked horse.

Jaskier pushes himself up to a sitting position, managing to snag his guitar from its stand without smacking Geralt, who is laying on his side and watching Jaskier like a large satisfied cat. Jaskier thinks he can get used to this, and already his happiness threatens to overwhelm him, the lightness flowing through his fingertips. 

"Any requests?" Jaskier proposes, and Geralt hums, thinking over the matter with more seriousness than it entails, probably. 

Then he asks for the song that Jaskier had dedicated to him, all those years ago.

"I …" Jaskier says, because it was one of those embarrassingly autobiographical songs which he sang that night. And no one was ever supposed to know. "I thought you left."

Geralt looks embarrassed. "Too much crowd," he says. "I was waiting just outside."

For how long? Jaskier wonders, picturing Geralt in the dark outside the bar, lit by the the glow from the doorway, breath curling from his mouth as he looked up at the early winter sky. Jaskier remembers going home with somebody now long forgotten that night, thinking that Geralt had left him because he just wasn't interested.

Overwhelmed, he reaches down and tangles their fingers together, bringing Geralt's hand to his lips for a kiss.

"What was that for?" Geralt asks, but he does not take his hand away. 

"For you," Jaskier says simply, and begins to play.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic)


End file.
